


Muet comme la tombe

by quentintarrantino



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Cannibalism, F/M, Murder, Non-Graphic Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:11:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quentintarrantino/pseuds/quentintarrantino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There is a reason the Aztecs consumed their enemies.” He mumbled into her throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muet comme la tombe

**Author's Note:**

> bleh I started writing again but this is just a bunch of bullshit whatevers that I was thinking about while watching the last episode. Enjoy.

The scar on her neck was a favorite of his, Abigail was a bit flattered, after all the scars and scratches he had left on so many others he found hers the most pleasing and she wasn’t even one of his victims. His calculating eyes would always linger on it as she took her scarf off, sometimes when his palm came down to rest on her shoulder his thumb would trace the raised flesh. “Scar tissue is tough, flavorless.” He had once informed her in his husky voice, accented with such a musical lilt. “I do not enjoy battered meals, but perhaps I would have made an exception for you.” Her cheeks would flush at the compliment and he would straighten up to sit behind his desk once more and fix her with his stare.

The office where they interacted most often was stale to her, it smelt of crusty books that hadn’t been read in a while and it made her uneasy. Abigail liked the outdoors, the crispness of an autumn morning with the frost still clinging to the leaves, her rifle in the crook of her arm. “Steady, you only want to stun, a bullet ruins the flesh.” His breathing would stir the stray bits of hair that poked from under her beanie as she steadied her aim and fired. The poor lumberjack, he had his earphones in and never even heard the crack of the bullet leaving the gun. Hannibal would smile his cold detached smile as he wound his jacket tighter still around him and handed her the knife with an approving nod. “Don’t get blood on your new gloves.” Was all she heard as she went tearing down to the clearing to collect their prize. They dined like kings that night and she fell asleep on his chest in his living room as he sipped his wine and flipped through medical journals he subscribed to.

“Is it always like this?” she whispered to him in the lowlight of his bedroom after their first dinner. “So… rejuvenating?”

His amusement made her feel more childish than she would’ve liked, fortunately the feeling did not linger, his lips had latched onto that perfect slash on the side of her neck and there would be limited talking for the night. “There is a reason the Aztecs consumed their enemies.” He mumbled into her throat.

The restraint he showed made her wonder at him, the way she could no longer contain herself when she saw them walking so calmly, like cows in India. They did not realize the danger they were in, two living vampires among them. Abigail fantasized about breaking their bones and serving their livers with mashed potatoes, Hannibal’s hand in her own kept her grounded. “Your enthusiasm is refreshing Abigail but your overzealousness is not.” At one point she was unnerved by his disinterest in everything around him but now she understood that he simply had to blunt his senses down. She would look at joggers on the streets and wonder if their taunt bodies were stringy and flavorless.

The morning after she spent the night she stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, her pale skin glowing ethereally like some kind of angel. Abigail would have been afraid six months ago but now she saw each bruise as its own work of art, blooming in untraceable patterns on her body. Hannibal was not a gentle man, perfect bite marks were on her shoulders, the most defined one lingering over her scar, each tooth left a red pinprick in its path. On some there were red trails where the blood had been smeared, but when she thought about  the way he had shuddered against her and for once she had held all the power it made her want to relive that moment again and again. For her he had made an exception after all, no one had seen him as she had. It fed her ego, leaning against the doorway and watching him sleep as the clock ticked away, Abigail could’ve just as easily slit his throat as climbed back beside him and he would’ve been none the wiser. That was her new definition of trust. She would tell him this later on in their relationship and he would look up from whatever he was doing and give her an eyebrow raise, that intriguing spark behind his eyes roaring into a small fire.

“Tell me,” he said to her, they sat at equal distance in their chairs, he was expecting patients that filtered in and out and so during these times she was content to lounge about the office. “Do you feel enlightened by your time with me?” it was simple conversation but thinly disguised.

Abigail tilted her head back to look at the ceiling. “You’ve made me what I always feared I was. A monster.” Many of their exchanges were in faint tones, as if the walls would observe their sins and pass the information along.

Hannibal, as usual, was nonplussed. “I took the blindfold of your ignorance away to let you see yourself as you always were.” He jotted something down on a scrap of paper. “A monster.”

Sometimes she thinks about what he will do to her when they part ways, more and more he appraises her, she can feel flames lap at her flesh from the heat in his gaze. He is already thinking about what kind of truffle sauce to serve her with when he finally gets around to killing her. The fact that she wakes up every morning to the feel of his arms draped over her ribcage furthers this suspicion, his hands circle her waist as if he wishes to snap her spine and haul her to the kitchen. Hannibal trails his finger over the curve of her lip and she opens her mouth to graze her teeth against it, watching him. “You are mine.” He commands, it is a definitive statement, not up for dispute.

There are times of peace, it is almost as if she is trying to show him she has more to offer, that letting her die at this moment would be a poor decision. It’s a silent sales pitch that happens every day, he listens and if he agrees she opens her eyes in the morning. But there are some days she doesn’t need to do it at all, the times in spring when the trees are in bloom and they lay on the grass. Hannibal leans against an old stump left to rot, her head rests in his lap and they will stay this way until the sun rises high and it gets too warm to be comfortable. Both prefer the cold; it’s easier to stay distanced and wrapped in layers. Psychopaths like the chill.

She feels the blade along her throat before she becomes aware of anything else. It rests over that scar, Abigail likes the way his fingers feel on her neck in contrast with the knife. She will die in this bed, she fears nothing. Opening her eyes to stare at him she smirks, tilting her chin up. “Is this all then?” She asks him.

Hannibal smirks back. “Scar tissue is tough, flavorless.” He repeats, pressing a kiss to her forehead at the same time he swipes the jagged edge across the tender appendage. 


End file.
